The Awesomely Epic Chronicles of Squalo and Xanxus
by Dreaming Spire
Summary: A beautiful, heartwarming tale of how Squalo and Xanxus surmount their relationship of tyrannical boss and whipping boy, and become best friends forever via human trafficking, falling couches, and dead goldfish. Xanxus x Squalo


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Katekyo Hitman Reborn! or its characters. Also: (1) I do not endorse Squalo's rather unorthodox views, (2) no animals (except all the ones mentioned) were harmed in the making of this story, and (3) this fic doesn't pay attention to Squalo and Xanxus's canon history.

**Warnings:** Spoilers, yaoi, crack, language, violence, lime

**Pairings:** Xanxus x Squalo (XS)

**Author's Notes:** This story was written for my friend Manda who is a dork and loves the XS pairing. Please read and review!

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**The Awesomely Epic Chronicles of Squalo and Xanxus**

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He's eleven-years-old when he's illegally adopted into the Vongola famiglia by means of forged papers, and this is how it happens. One late evening, as he's scrubbing his gums raw with his chewed-up toothbrush, several of his classmates timidly enter the shabby bathroom, staring pointedly at the back of his head.

Briefly he acknowledges their unwelcome presence with a flicker of eyes to the mirror before him, glowering darkly at their reflections. With no response forthcoming, he passionately returns to the task of beating plaque into utter submission because, after all, every good swordsman needs clean, white teeth if victory smirks are to be effective.

"Uh, S-Squalo?" stammers a small, pudgy boy by the door, sausage fingers twisting in his nightshirt. Squalo's teeth clamp down on his toothbrush aggressively, and he turns his head over his shoulder to pin the idiot with a ferocious glare.

"I'm _brushing_ my_ teeth_," he says slowly — generously, he thinks, because maybe the poor fool _hadn't fucking noticed_ that Squalo was busy preventing gingivitis or periodontitis or, god forbid, _trench mouth_. "So shut the fuck up, you goddamn piece of trash."

Naturally, the boy flinches and retreats to hide his shame, and Squalo decides that this is an excellent time to practice his swordsman's victory smirk and does so, toothpaste foaming in his mouth and likening him to a rapid dog.

The other children shudder, and Squalo is satisfied.

Several tense seconds pass in silence. Then, with impudent confidence, his name is called again and now Squalo's getting pissed. Brushing teeth is serious business and if he misses a spot because of these fucktwits and ends up with a mouthful of cavities and crowns and caps, he's gonna fuck somebody up.

"Squalo, teacher says you're leaving," pipes up one such fucktwit. "Is it true, huh? Are you going back to Italy?"

Blinking, Squalo messily spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with the back of his free hand. "What?" he demands, brandishing his toothbrush angrily as he prods it into the fucktwit's chest. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The boy shifts uncomfortably, glancing at his comrades for backup, but they're too preoccupied with intently studying their toes. Swallowing, he shrugs one shoulder limply. "U-um, well, we kinda overheard teacher talking with somebody on the phone. H-he said you were gonna go to Italy and live with some family."

Squalo severely doubts this. "Heeey, shitheads," he scoffs, "you must have overheard wrong." Their simultaneous expressions of disappointment amuse the white haired boy, so he flashes them his second victory smirk of the night. "Yeah, that's right, trash. I'm not fucking going anywhere, so get used to it."

As he pulls out an economy-size bottle of mouthwash from his knapsack, the other boys dejectedly file out of the room, heads hung sadly. Squalo erringly attempts his third swordsman's victory smirk while gargling, and consequently chokes.

Karma's a bitch.

And, fifteen minutes later, "What do you mean I'm leaving for Italy!?" Squalo howls. Instinctively he searches for something valuable to smash, and won't that pretty vase do nicely? Unfortunately, to pick it up, Squalo would be forced to place down his toiletries, which he's reluctant to do. He heard somewhere that toothpaste is toxic, and should his plans to stab his teacher to death with his toothbrush fail, he intends to poison him instead. "Why the hell would I go back to Italy!? I need to finish my training here!"

Leaning against the windowsill, teacher sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Boy, I don't believe you understand the window of opportunity that's been opened for you," he says, leathery hand stroking the length of his graying beard. "The Vongola famiglia is powerful, powerful enough that this country should feel its influence, and they have singled you out as a potential new member."

For a moment, Squalo's anger abates and his ego swells. "Yeah, I'm pretty awesome, aren't I?"

Muttering under his breath, teacher valiantly downs a shot of whisky with such an abandon that Squalo is momentarily stunned. The aging man inhales deeply through his nose, coughs once, and then continues. "Listen to me, Squalo. You are swiftly progressing past the level that I can teach you. Should you agree to their terms, I can assure you that you will learn sevenfold what you could possibly learn here in the academy."

Squalo pauses, peering up at his teacher with a suspicious tilt of his lips. "And I suppose you're gonna tell me that this has nothing to do with the costs to repair the water damage I caused last week?" There's a distinct note of pride and smugness in his tone, and teacher's jaw visibly clenches.

"No," lies teacher, "this doesn't have anything to do with money. Please focus, Squalo. We're discussing your future."

Draping himself over one of the armchairs, the young boy shoves his chin into the palm of his hand and rolls gray eyes. "Yeah right," he snorts. "Seriously old man, just tell me how much these Bongo pimps are gonna give you in exchange for me."

Teacher flushes in a mixture of anger, guilt, and defeat. "It's the _Vongola famiglia_, you impudent boy, not the Bongo pimps. And they're offering not only enough to cover the costs of the water damage from last week, but enough to fix the west wing you ruined a month ago, to replace all twenty-four swords you've broken or destroyed, and enough to pay for Victor's therapy sessions."

"Heeey," grouses Squalo, clearly the victim. "Victor had it coming, the little snot-nosed shit. I can tell you right now that that fucker won't ever leave the toilet seat down again."

Blankly staring at his student, teacher fishes around in his breast pocket and takes out a fountain pen. "You're going back to Italy," he says flatly, and forges Squalo's name on the document before him.

And that was that.

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Well, actually, that was not that. Amidst Squalo's deafening protests, which are intelligently emphasized by his colorful vocabulary and articulate way with words, he is jumped. Men in black suits swarm the room, and before Squalo can finish telling teacher what he'd like to do to his mother, a dart makes itself at home at the nape of his neck. The next thing he knows, he's waking up half-way to Italy via jet in a wooden crate that both claims, "Fragile," and, "This side up."

And that's how Squalo's illegally adopted into the Vongola famiglia.

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He's thirteen-years-old when he earns the name Superbi Squalo by means of a couch falling on his head, and this is how it happens. One brisk Italy morning finds Squalo crouching low in the crowded courtyard, practicing the Kage-ryu sword style that he had recently picked up from the IXth's Thunder guardian. He gracefully moves through the sixteen forms, taking no notice of the envious glares the other trainees shoot him and disregarding the superfluous praise from the awed instructors.

Squalo's blatant skill and unnerving penchant for adopting and implementing different sword styles has helped him quickly advance the ranks of the Vongola famiglia. His boundless progress is observed carefully by the head honcho and his six underlings, all of whom have become quite familiar with the boy, especially after his legendary third failed attempt on the IXth's life. The higher ups in the famiglia are now accustomed to Squalo's schemes and don't bat an eyelash at the destruction he leaves in his wake. If the boy didn't know better, he'd have said that he wasn't being taken seriously by the Vongola.

But, despite their amusement at his antics to kill their boss, the guardians have taken a keen interest in the boy, and it is the Cloud guardian who suggests enrolling Squalo in a special training program. The IXth agreed, and this is how Squalo ends up competing with men triple his age for some retarded position in the Malaria Squad, or whatever. Squalo doesn't pay much attention to the details, doesn't need to, not when he has access to shitty food, decent shelter, standard schooling in sword techniques, and the pass-go to try and murder the IXth as much as he pleases without the threat of being shot. Hell, he's pretty fucking content.

Until a couch falls out of the sky and squashes him.

The trainees drop their respective weapons to gape at the sight. They do not move, because they are not quite sure what one is expected to do when furniture rains from the heavens and kills little boys, and also because they are desperately relieved that the Lord has taken it upon Himself to save them from Squalo's eternal bitchery. Anonymously they decide to celebrate, and take off for the pubs.

In the meantime, the panicked instructors have been struggling to lift the couch from the three foot crater it has created. Lo and behold! Squalo weakly wriggles out from beneath the devastating weight of the sofa, face bruised and bloody, and fashionably sporting a broken arm and dislocated shoulder.

"It's a miracle!" proclaims one instructor, tears in his eyes, and kisses his rosary.

"This boy is blessed by our Lord!" declares another. "This must be a sign from the heavens — Squalo is surely destined for great things!"

While they discuss this, Squalo silently tilts his head back and examines the mansion that serves as the Vongola's base of operations. As he suspects, a row of windows on the third floor has been shattered, and memorizing the location of the room, he shoves past his teachers. They watch as he storms down the glass-strewn cobblestone path out of the courtyard and disappears inside the mansion.

"Uh-oh," says an instructor. "Not good." They hurry after the boy.

But Squalo's already marching down the third floor hall, useless arm cheerfully swinging by his side with sporadic bursts of pain that he dutifully ignores. The sound of expensive china being demolished alerts him that who he's searching for is in the library, and he follows the noise of destruction and of women crying.

" — you worthless whore. Tell me. What did I ask for?"

"A c-c-cappuccino, s-sir."

Ahead, the library doors are cracked open and a beam of light is invitingly spilling into the corridor, and Squalo recklessly approaches, his footsteps muffled by the sudden high pitched shriek that ricochets down the hall.

"Correct. I asked for a cappuccino. And does this look like a cappuccino to you?"

"M-master Xanxus — !"

"You're nodding your head, yes? Yes, this _does_ look like a cappuccino? Well then, _look closer bitch_."

Squalo squeezes his thin, lithe body between the wedged open doors and steps lightly into the library, which is nearly unrecognizable in its wreckage. A few feet off, a maid is anxiously wringing her apron, shoulders hunched defensively, and standing in the center of the room, holding a second maid in place with a fistful of mousey brown hair, is a dark skinned, red eyed boy about Squalo's age.

"Master Xanxus!" cries the first maid, trembling with fear. "P-please let go! You'll hurt her!"

"Where's the fucking frothed milk?" asks Xanxus, expression dark, voice tightly controlled. "There's no fucking frothed milk in this disgusting shit you call a cappuccino."

Squalo's getting the distinct impression that they haven't noticed his presence, and this annoys him. Sulking, he exits the library to try again.

"I'm sorry!" frantically screams the second maid as her face is introduced to the steaming cup of hot not-cappuccino. "I'm sorry! I'll get some frothed milk for you immediately!"

"No," disagrees the boy, and both women freeze, holding their breath, "you won't. You lost your chance."

This time, Squalo's grand entrance is preceded by a powerful kick to the double doors, which crash noisily into the opposite walls before bouncing off and knocking him flat. He thinks that maybe a swordsman's smirk might rectify this embarrassing situation as all three occupants of the library stare at him incredulously, but he also thinks that he might have lost a few teeth when the doors hit him and decides not to chance it.

"Oh, thank God!" breathes the first maid, and she scrambles over to Squalo as the boy picks himself up off the ground. Latching onto his arm, she pleads, "Please! You must stop him before he kills her!"

Squalo shudders, because there's a girl hugging him, and fucking hell, but if what he heard from the other men is true, he's gonna die of a STD or something now. "Don't touch me!" he screeches, flapping a broken arm at her threateningly. This fails to impress her.

"Who the hell are you?" coldly demands Xanxus, clearly impatient as he tightens his grip on his victim's hair.

Remembering why he came here, Squalo answers this valid question with his remaining good fist.

The dark skinned, red eyed boy reels backward in shock, and the cappuccino slips out of his hand as the maid wrenches herself free, bawling hysterically while she runs to safety. Xanxus straightens, fingers questioningly mapping out the angry red area where Squalo's fist had connected, and his eyes widen with a black fury. Before he can retaliate, Squalo slugs him again for good measure and says, "I'm the kid you tried to flatten with a damn couch, you piece of trash," and slams a knee into the boy's exposed stomach.

"Jesus Christ!" elatedly shouts a voice from the door, and Squalo hears the thunder of footfalls. "Squalo's beating the shit out of Xanxus! Is someone recording this!?"

Apparently Squalo has an audience now, and he intends to put on a good show. With an animalistic grin, he follows the knee-to-the-gut with a friendly elbow-to-the-spine. Spittle flying from his mouth, Xanxus collapses face first in the puddle of spilt cappuccino with a cursed groan. There's a collective gasp from his audience, and Squalo beams proudly.

The boy Xanxus pushes himself up onto his arms, staring impassively at his disheveled visage in the puddle's reflection. Although there's no trace of emotion on his cappuccino-soaked face, his red eyes are so flipping wide that Squalo's positive that they're gonna pop out of their sockets.

There's something alien about that, something unnatural. So Squalo stops smiling, because this kid seriously looks like he's about to combust or something, and as soon as he finishes that thought, hands are seizing him, dragging him away from Xanxus. Men in black suits and men from the courtyard are swarming into the library, hastily flinging themselves at the dark skinned, red eyed boy, pinning his hands to the ground. Xanxus doesn't struggle, doesn't move, but watches Squalo eerily with those wide eyes, thick lips curling back into a soundless snarl, hands glowing —

"Retreat!" roars an instructor, and suddenly Squalo is being manhandled out the door by a flood of terrified men who sprint him down the hallway. "Go, go, go, go, go!"

Raising his head, Squalo sees that Xanxus is still staring at him, and with a feral smirk, he salutes the other boy. "Fucker!" he taunts, and holy shit, the kid really _did_ combust! An enraged scream chases them down the corridor as the library explodes into a fiery light. Before Squalo can permanently lose his vision, doors quietly click shut in front of his face, cutting off the radioactive glow, and they're in the elevator.

"You're crazy," pants one of the instructors, and they make room to carefully place the boy on his feet, mindful of his injuries. "Shit, but you're one crazy sonovabitch. Don't you know who that is? You just trashed the IXth's only son. There's no way they're gonna let you get away with that."

"The fucktwit dropped a couch on me!" snaps Squalo, scowling. "What was I supposed to do!? Let him get away with it!? Fuck no! So I fucking trashed him, and you know what!? I fucking trashed him with a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder!" He puffs out his chest and laughs. "I'm not crazy, I'm just awesome."

A raucous tremor shakes the mansion, making it difficult to hear, and one man mutters, "Superbia."

"Yeah, damn straight," says Squalo, who has no idea what he's talking about but likes the ring of the name. "Call me Superbi Squalo."

And that was that.

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Well, actually, that was not that, as is usual when Squalo is involved. Due to the unfortunate annihilation of the third and fourth floors of the mansion, the Vongola famiglia is forced to relocate their base of operations. Upon later consideration, it is agreed that Squalo and Xanxus should not be allowed within five cities of each other, and the white haired boy is sent to train in Turin where the Rain and Cloud guardians reside. Unluckily, Turin is also where Squalo's remaining relatives live, and so he spends most 

of his time avoiding his senile old grandmother, who has heard of his unexpected return. She demands of passerby if they have seen her grandson, Squalo Ferrero, and in retaliation the boy demands that he be called Superbi Squalo, thinking himself very clever. The Rain and Cloud guardians think he may be a genius of the blade, but an idiot in all other aspects.

And that's how he earns the name of Superbi Squalo.

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He's fourteen-years-old when he and Xanxus become best friends forever by means of a dead pet goldfish, and this is how it happens. The autumn sun is perched high in the sky as Squalo strolls down a worn dirt path following the Po river, pulling a rusted red wagon behind him. Every few seconds the boy glances over his shoulder to check on the condition of his precious cargo, and in its glass home, the goldfish obliviously swims, scales glittering in the sunbeams.

Two days ago Squalo had celebrated his birthday, and because he had just finished business in Milan, the IXth and his entourage had visited the boy and presented him with a pet, a goldfish. Squalo's chaperones, the Rain and Cloud guardians, had protested, having had experience with Squalo and his inability to keep his pets alive. But Squalo had argued that Sharky, his new goldfish, would not follow the same path of Blacky, his pet raccoon that had accidently jumped into the fireplace, or Fuzzy, his pet porcupine that had mistakenly crawled into the washing machine, or even Sammy, his pet fox that had erroneously climbed into the blender.

No, Sharky will live a long, prosperous life, and Squalo is determined to be a good pet owner, and according to Wikipedia, pets need exercise to stay healthy, so here Squalo was, taking Sharky on a walk.

The first day Squalo had taken Sharky on a walk he had tried to hold the heavy fishbowl in his arms and had consequently dropped and shattered the bowl in sixteen minutes. He had refused to explain how he had managed to keep the fish alive long enough to return to the base and find it some water, but was later found miserably brushing his tongue and inside of his mouth. The Rain guardian had offered to give Squalo her daughter's wagon after that, and the boy had thanklessly taken it.

Smiling happily, Squalo carefully guides both wagon and pet over the dangerous rocks and the unstable riverbeds, feeling for once the wonderful joys of boyhood and of innocence that he had been denied as a child. Walking down another road, he thinks to himself that life is a beautiful thing indeed when one has a pet.

And then, in a heavy cloud of dust, Xanxus appears on the road, staring down at the white haired boy from atop of his shiny kick scooter. Covering his mouth with his sleeve and swallowing down the compulsion to cough, Squalo thinks that Xanxus is the type of kid who really needs a pet. A loyal companion that would stick through thick and thin with him, that would put up with his abuse and insanity, that would defend and protect him to the bitter end; a dog, perhaps. However, what the white haired boy doesn't know is that what Xanxus really needs is not a dog, but a Squalo. Or maybe they're the same thing.

"Heeey, what's up fucker?" conversationally inquires Squalo, brushing dust off of his overcoat. "Had any good cappuccinos lately?"

Unsurprisingly, Xanxus doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, the boy leans his weight on the handlebars of his scooter and coolly examines Squalo with lazy, half-mast eyes. "They say that if you complete your training by next spring, you'll be the youngest member to ever be accepted into the Varia," he remarks.

"Yeah," haughtily responds Squalo, who did not know this, "I know. Did you come here with daddy just to congratulate me? Why didn't you come to my birthday party the other day, fucktard?"

Xanxus's thick lips tighten into a displeased line. "My dad doesn't know I'm here, scumbag," he retorts loftily. "We're not allowed within five cities of each other or some bullshit like that, because you put a restraining order on me."

Squalo most certainly did not. "What the fuck!? No I didn't, shithead! I'm the one who beat the living shit out — "

"When you defeat Tyr," continues Xanxus without skipping a beat, still wearing the same disinterested, sleepy mask, "you'll be very useful to me."

Perching on the lip of his wagon, Squalo glares up at Xanxus. "What're you talking about? Who the fuck is Tyr?"

Riding his scooter down a hill, Xanxus pauses before Squalo. The white haired boy doesn't like the advantage Xanxus has towering over him like this, and so he stands up again, pleased to find that he's at least four inches taller.

"Tyr is the current leader of the Varia," Xanxus elaborates simply, and there's a crease in his forehead that tells Squalo he's noticed their height differences.

Squalo snorts. "What the hell do I care?"

Eyes flashing, Xanxus smirks. "Tyr is not only the leader of the Varia, but the Sword Emperor. It is said that he has not, and cannot, be beaten." He's caught Squalo, trapped him with the challenge behind those words, and they both know it. "Imagine," he murmurs enticingly. "Imagine defeating Tyr, the Sword Emperor…winning that title for yourself."

A long, lopsided grin twists Squalo's mouth before he catches himself and tears away from the mental image of final conquest. "Yeah?" he growls, hands on his hips. "And what's all this to you? I don't get it."

"My dad's growing old," reminds the other boy. "Soon he will die, and I will be named the next boss of the Vongola famiglia. If you manage to defeat Tyr — " he smirks again at Squalo's irritated hiss, eyes finally losing their sleepiness as they widen " — you will be named the next leader of the Varia."

Squalo can see where Xanxus is going with this, and isn't sure he likes it. "Heeey," he begins, rolling his eyes. "Even I know that the Varia is independent from your daddy's mafia whorehouse or whatever. When I _do_ defeat Tyr, what makes you think I'm gonna listen to you, fucker?" He's still bitter about the couch incident.

Xanxus blinks, as if he had never factored in the chance that Squalo might refuse to cooperate. 

Expression contorting with anger, he whips out a slingshot from a pocket of his jacket. "You have no choice," he snaps.

Squalo rolls his eyes. "Are you seriously trying to bully me with that thing? What the fuck happened to your creepy hands of doom that I heard about? Did daddy forbid you to use them for blowing up his mansion?"

"Shut it, scum," suggests Xanxus, and then he shoots. The white haired boy dodges the rock triumphantly, but immediately blanches at the sound of glass breaking. He whirls around.

There in the wagon is Sharky, skewed by a sharp piece of glass that had once lovingly housed him. Squalo thinks now would be an appropriate time to cry, or do something else just as womanly, but doesn't really know how to, so he settles for gaping at his dead pet like an idiot.

"My _fish_," he says brokenly, tenderly picking up the shard of glass that has shish-kabobbed Sharky. "You killed my fish."

Xanxus frowns. "Just buy another one or something, worm," he replies, and there's a distinct nuance of discomfort in his tone as he eyes Squalo.

"Holy shit, fucker," continues Squalo. "You fucking killed my fish."

"You try to kill my dad all the time!" points out Xanxus in frustration.

"But I never tried to kill your _fish_!" Squalo yowls piteously, cradling Sharky to his chest and stabbing himself in the sternum in the process.

Xanxus, despite never having had a fish, thinks about that. "This is true," he agrees finally. Then, straightening his jacket self-consciously, he begins to back away. "Right, so….uh, think about what I said, and we'll talk about it over cappuccino sometime, scumbag." And before Squalo can even flip him the bird, Xanxus has scootered away into the distance.

Upon his return home, Squalo despondently presents Sharky to the IXth and his guardians by dropping the speared fish down on the newspaper that the Vongola boss is reading.

"My God!" exclaims the old man, disgust clear on his face as he drops the paper in horror. "What happened!?"

Perhaps startling the boss of incredibly dangerous guardians is not a good idea, because Squalo then finds himself at the end of many pointy weapons. "What is it?" softly asks the Cloud, eyes narrowed and dark.

"Sharky's dead!" wails Squalo, adolescent Adam's apple bobbing against the edge of a dagger. "Dead, dead, dead, dead, _dead_."

The Rain guardian's daughter begins to sob, staring wide eyed at the speared fish, and her mother quickly escorts her from the room, muttering under her breath. The other guardians relax, sending many a scathing glare to the white haired boy, and resume whatever they had been doing before Squalo had burst into the room.

"How did this happen?" kindly asks the IXth, placing a grandfatherly hand on Squalo's drooped shoulder. "Come, my boy. Tell me."

Squalo opens his mouth, because trying to kill him with a couch is one thing, but killing his pet fish is just sick and wrong. Yet, for reasons beyond him, he finds that he can't admit that Xanxus was the one who killed Sharky, that yes, Xanxus is in Turin, even though he should be back at the base in Rome. "Some stupid fuckers threw rocks at my wagon," he lies, and feels a sharp pinprick at the nape of his neck. He scowls, knowing that the bastard is probably outside, watching and listening to see if Squalo will tattle.

"Let me see that," insists the Mist guardian, and she plucks the shard of glass off the paper to inspect it. Curious, both the Sun and Thunder guardian peer over her shoulder. "As I thought," she remarks, rolling her eyes. "This fish was dead before it was impaled."

"Huh?" says Squalo intelligently.

The Sun guardian pokes Sharky. "It's all dried out," he comments, scratching the bridge of his nose. "Hey, Squalo. You didn't leave Sharky's fishbowl out in the sun, did you?"

All eyes turn on the boy, including Xanxus's outside.

"Uh, yeah," admits Squalo blankly. "I kinda did."

"Idiot boy," sighs the Cloud guardian, shaking his head. "The water from the fishbowl evaporated. Those kids didn't kill Sharky; you did. And that means that I win the bet." The Storm guardian glowers at Squalo as he relinquishes the money.

"I'm so sorry, my dear boy," murmurs the IXth sadly. "I could buy you another goldfish, if you would like?"

Squalo, who is immensely relieved to find out that he was the one who killed the fish, and not the fucker Xanxus, grins happily. "Naw," he laughs. "Fucking goldfish are boring as hell. I want something vicious, like a barracuda or something." He walks out of the room, still cackling.

The IXth rubs his forehead. "I wonder about that boy sometimes," he says tiredly. "Bella, would you mind flushing that thing? It's starting to stink up the room."

"No need," replies the Mist guardian, chewing thoughtfully.

And that was that. Except, it really wasn't.

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The IXth and four of his six guardians departed for Rome five days later, and Squalo could only assume that Xanxus had somehow managed to sneak back with them. After training, the white haired boy climbs the stairs to his room and is startled to find an enormous tank set before his small bed, housing 

not one, but two piranhas. As Squalo wonders how the fuck Xanxus pulled this off, he notices a sticky note stuck to the side of the glass tank.

"_You'll make a good minion one day, _" it read. "_I'll see your ugly mug at Christmas, worm. _"

And that's how Squalo and Xanxus became best friends forever.

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He's sixteen-years-old when he finally submits all of himself to Xanxus's fury by means of a dead Sword Emperor and this is how it happens. Dusk is slowly befalling Rome, just hours after Tyr's spilt blood has cooled and Squalo has been named the Second Sword Emperor.

The Varia has assembled its members in a state of awe and shock, prepared to greet and welcome their new, teenaged leader. But they will wait longer yet, because Squalo is not interested in leading any man, not when Xanxus is not there for him to follow. Bleeding from various injuries, he single mindedly tracks Xanxus down to an obscure club in bumfuck nowhere, slides into the booth beside the young man who is currently lip locked with a broad, and simply says, "Tyr's dead."

Xanxus tears his mouth away from the woman's, tilts his head back, and glances at Squalo out of the corner of his eye while she grazes hungry kisses down the column of his throat. "Took you long enough," he replies, smirking. "What the fuck did you do to your hand?"

Unconsciously, Squalo itches the skin above the stump of his left wrist, which is tightly bandaged. "I cut it off," he answers, reaching for the other youth's drink. Xanxus nearly breaks his nose for his efforts.

"Get your own damn beer."

Vaguely annoyed, Squalo begins to slide out of the booth to do just that when a hand clamps around his elbow and yanks him back. He growls warningly, baring his teeth, but Xanxus just shoots him a look and returns his attention to the woman.

"Selfish bastard," Squalo hisses. There had been a time once when Squalo would have cut Xanxus up for manhandling him, but that time had died a long while ago, and now Squalo, irritated and exhausted and bleeding, sits obediently at the table.

The woman is unceremoniously dumped to the floor, and she yelps in pain as Xanxus's large boot pushes her away. She scowls, but knows better than to test the Mafioso, and buttoning up her shirt, leaves.

"What did you call me?" asks Xanxus coldly, and as much as Squalo loves brawling with the other man, there's no way in hell he's going to screw himself over fighting in his condition.

Then again, Squalo is a bit of a masochist.

"You heard me, fucker," he growls lowly, and _there_. A sharp spark of interest widening Xanxus's sleepy eyes as he finally looks at Squalo. And Squalo knows what the man wants, knows that, after the broad, that Xanxus is already half-way there, but he dragged his sore body to this goddamn club for a reason, and it wasn't for sex. "Xanxus," he says seriously, gray eyes hard. "I won't lead the Varia."

Xanxus's expression contorts with an ugly rage, and he snarls, twisting Squalo's elbow behind his back. "Explain yourself," he demands, pupils contracted in fury.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Squalo grimaces and snaps, "You should be the one who leads them, not me! When you're named heir, the Vongola will be yours to rule, every facet of it, and that includes the Varia!"

His arm's released. For a few quiet moments, Xanxus stares at him, stares like he had when they were thirteen, intense and eerie. Then, snorting, he stands and drags Squalo out of the booth and out of the bar, leading the white haired youth into an already occupied room.

"Get the fuck out," he says, and a woman hurriedly snaps on her bra before racing out of the room, her male companion stumbling after her. Squalo's shoved into a wall. "You're pathetic," Xanxus remarks, and Squalo can't reply because there's a hard, angry mouth in the way. He whines in his throat, his body beaten and weary and really not too enthused after his forty-eight hour battle with Tyr, but Xanxus slides a knee between his legs and Squalo supposes he'll survive.

Xanxus just grins, tugging Squalo's shirt over his head without a care for his left arm. "How're you going to fight with your right hand?" he suddenly asks, rolling his hips into Squalo's. "You'll be useless to me."

Squalo smirks. "I'll figure something out," he replies, and Xanxus laughs darkly, fingernails raking down his bare back. His fingers are hot, leave bruises over Squalo's alabaster skin, and Squalo willingly submits, let's Xanxus have everything of him, because this is what he fucking wants, what he needs. Xanxus was born to lead Squalo, to own and possess him, and Squalo's all too happy to comply.

…Well.

"Fuck no!" yells Squalo four and a half minutes later. "Suck it yourself, you shithead!"

And that was, literally, the end of that.

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He's twenty-four-years-old when Xanxus is freed from his ice prison by means of many blow dryers, and this is how it happens. Eight long years have passed since the cradle affair, and the Varia has been waiting too long for their lazy ass boss to wake the fuck up. Now, on the eighth Christmas Eve following the loss of Xanxus, Squalo decides that he's going to shoot himself. Eight years without sex is a lifetime, but eight years having to babysit the Varia is an eternity. Somewhere in their humble abode, Bel is obnoxiously singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, Lussuria is decorating Xanxus's frozen body with ribbons and bells and lights to celebrate the holiday, and Levi is apparently baking cookies in the kitchen. Tonight, they'll get drunk off their asses and sit around and talk about better days…you know…when their boss wasn't fucking frozen in a block of ice.

Christmas morning starts off with the droning hum of one of Squalo's many blow dryers. He puts the dryer down to find his brush, and when he straightens, his blow dryer has been replaced with a walnut, Bel's mad cackling echoing down the hall.

"What the fuck are you!?" screeches Squalo, picking up the walnut. "A packrat or something!?"

He stalks out of the kitchen, ready to throttle the little beast, and finds Bel perched on top of their boss comfortably.

"What are you doing?" he demands.

"Blow drying the boss," innocently answers Bel, grinning predatorily, but before Squalo can kill him, they both notice that _the ice is fucking melting. _

"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit," says Squalo, and twenty minutes later, the Varia are sitting around their fearless, frozen leader, holding Squalo's blow dryers to the ice. "Why the fuck didn't you fucktwits think of this earlier!?"

"Because this is most possibly the lamest thing we've ever had to do?" supplies Mammon wretchedly. "Can't we open presents first? Xanxus won't have to know."

Squalo thinks that this is the best present he's ever had, and silences the fool with a hard kick to his oversized head.

Nineteen hours and many sore hands later, Xanxus's head is completely unfrozen. He blinks groggily, groaning under his breath, and the Varia crowd him like little schoolgirls, cooing and petting him and ignoring how he keeps trying to bite their fingers off.

Squalo thinks that this isn't only the best present that he's ever had, but that he could die happy now that his boss, his Xanxus, is finally fucking _free_.

"Heeey," he greets Xanxus, eyes soft.

Xanxus stares at him. "Goddamit, Squalo," he says flatly, nose wrinkled. "You look like a fucking girl."

This was not the romantic reunion Squalo had imagined, and so he dumps eggnog on his boss's head. "Merry Christmas, fucker," he responds sweetly, and smirks the swordsman's smirk.

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_Fin. _

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**A/N:** And that's all folks. My first and most likely last attempt to write crack. And anyone who caught the Winnie the Pooh reference? Kudos, dudes. Kudos. _Review_??


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